


Ace on the River

by VeronicaRich



Series: Smokin' Aces [3]
Category: Red Dwarf
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-15
Updated: 2011-03-15
Packaged: 2017-10-16 23:54:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/170718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VeronicaRich/pseuds/VeronicaRich
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lister finds an Ace willing to help him find his way back to his makeshift family. Takes place after "Smokin' Aces" and "Two-Card Dud." Spoilers: The whole damn series up through Series 8.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ace on the River

“I don’t suppose you know your home dimension ident code?”

“It’s not something I exactly carry around in my wallet, no.”

Ace smiled reassuringly. “No matter, old bean. Once we get back to _Wildfire_ , Fiona can scan you and figure it out.”

Lister took a healthy swig of his lager, studying the man on the barstool next to his. Ace sipped at a double scotch, neat, facing him with an elbow on the bar. While the pilot’s attention was on him most of the time, he noticed those hazel eyes also flicking past him often enough to pick out potential trouble, accompanied by the occasional subtle jaw-tightening and lingering gaze on what Lister figured were Suspicious Characters. (Though, to him, the Argonne dive was practically a theme park of them; perhaps some were just worse than others.) “Fiona? You have a steady girl now, man?”

Laughing, Ace shook his head, what Lister knew to be a wig shaking naturally with the movement. “Not sure if she’s my girl, per se; Fiona’s her own lady, I think.” He withdrew a small, battered leather wallet and unwrapped it, withdrawing two cheroots; he offered Lister one and stuck the other between his teeth as he fished for a lighter. “Shipboard computer – that’s the name she let me give her.”

“Here.” Patting his own jacket pockets, Lister found his Zippo and flicked it open. Ace nodded and leaned forward to light his smoke, cupping a hand around the flame to steady it. The movement brought him within a few inches of Lister, and he noticed when Ace glanced up as he sucked in a couple of quick puffs to light the leaf – the tiny flame reflected in his eyes, highlighting flecks of dark amber in the green. He’d never used to think of his own Rimmer’s eyes as “beautiful,” but he realized they had to be identical to Ace’s. Weren’t they all?

Ace leaned back and puffed a few times, then released a series of wispy curls of fragrant smoke as Lister lighted up. “Thanks, chap,” he smiled, reaching across the bar for the clean ashtray the tender had just put out. “I haven’t asked, what brings you all the way out here?”

“I was separated from my crew when we escaped our ship. They made it to a larger transport, but I was looking for someone and had to take the last escape pod instead.”

“Bad bit of luck. Still, you’re in one piece and putting oxygen to work, so not as bad off as some.” Ace tapped some ash off. “What were you escaping?”

Lister told him about the virus eating the _Dwarf_ and how a few of them had escaped into a mirror universe to avoid death. Things had been fine for a very short while – more than fine, actually, since their situation, being the opposite of prison inmates and lowest-ranking on the ship cast them in higher, privileged positions – until they realized they’d brought some of the virus with them, and it adapted quickly to start eating the mirror _Red Dwarf_. Everybody began escaping en masse, the few of them as senior officers getting the best pick of the _Starbugs_ available; only, Lister had stayed to search for Captain Rimmer (who they’d heard about for their few days aboard, but never actually seen or met for some odd reason) without success, until the last minute when he’d had to leave. This led to him telling Ace the rest of the back story so he’d understand, clear back to when Kochanski had come aboard from yet another universe and been forced to stay by an unstable wormhole.

“Your adventures make mine sound like kindergarten,” Ace remarked, a touch of admiration in his voice.

“Yeah, but the _nuns_ , man,” Lister reminded him, thinking of the rescue Ace had just completed, which he’d related when Lister first wandered into the bar, found him by sheer dumb luck, and had been heartily invited onto the adjacent stool for a couple of pints. “Not to mention those orphans!”

“Work, Davy. That’s my expected _job_. Nothing like tossing your spuds on the grill for friends and standing cheek-to-jowl with Death.”

“Now, let’s don’t argue on it.” Lister hadn’t blushed since Kochanski had reamed him out for spying on her in the prison shower; he hoped he didn’t look like too much of a fanboy. It wasn’t that he was easily taken in by the charm and easy bonhomie of Ace, but that the few he’d met so far were just so darn friendly and made him feel valuable and useful. _Liked._ Whereas, the only two Rimmers he’d lived with for any length of time had usually treated him with general disapproval and contempt, punctuated with very occasional bursts of grudging respect. “So you’re not taking off again right away?”

“Not ‘til tomorrow, Skipper. The old girl’s doing some self-repairs in the hangar, so I’ll just put up in a room for the night – you’re welcome to come with, of course – and we can leave in the morning and get you squared away.”

“Can we find the guys and Kochanski first? I don’t want to return to my own universe without ‘em.”

“Course, course, Davy. Wouldn’t dream of otherwise.”

*******

On their walk to the Argonne Towers, even though it wasn’t that far, they were set upon by two shadowy figures – both of whom Ace easily fended off, one with a pistol and the other with the threat of exposure of his boss – and no fewer than three besotted women trying to get themselves taken back to his room (or into an alley) for a couple of hours or so. Lister was amused by it all, and he wondered if Rimmer had run into such “problems” during his term as Ace. With a heavy heart earlier in the evening, he’d surmised this wasn’t “his” Rimmer – there’d been no questions to establish whether HE was a specific Lister, no fishing for details or stories of the rest of the gang, none of the self-doubt and -loathing that had defined the man Lister had lived with for so many years, right up to the moment he left _as_ the next Ace. He’d always hoped Rimmer would beat the curse and not get himself killed so soon, somehow thinking perhaps the guy had just needed a chance to prove himself.

But this Ace couldn’t be his Rimmer – he was too confident, humble, friendly, and happy to help. And now he was at the front desk asking for a room, just a plain room, nothing fancy, pulling out another leather wallet. The clearly twitterpated clerk took the currency, but on his own upgraded Ace’s room to something far fancier with a better view, for free, and coyly handed over the key card. The young fellow’s eyes tracked Ace’s departure, but when they fell on Lister, turned nearly murderous. He took a step back, unnerved by the kid’s infatuation, and held up his hands and made a face at Ace’s back, trying to give the universal sign for “no touchy.” The gesture seemed to dampen the young guy’s emotion from “I will kill you where you stand” to merely “I may sneak in in the wee hours and slice you open like a melon.”

The room was far more opulent than Lister had ever been used to; he wondered if Ace was given these sorts of accommodations as a matter of course, regularly. The creams and icy deep blues of the décor made him feel filthy, unshaven; he began to itch. He noticed Ace watching, and joked, “What I wouldn’t give for Kryten and his laundry tendencies right about now.”

Ace picked up a phone and waited a moment, then spoke: “Room 1004 here … I wonder if we could get service for one … yes, love, male, size-” He turned and glanced at Lister, up and down. “Third, I believe.” He paused again. “Early, yes … why thank you, dearest. Ciao.” He hung up and gestured toward the bedroom, through a separate part of the suite. “I believe there’s a robe somewhere in there, if you want to get out of those and leave them in a bag for laundry pickup, they’ll have them back clean in the morning, and you can have a bath. I’ll get you something to eat, too, old sport.”

Twenty minutes later, after scrubbing himself and his hair in a shower and refilling the tub with clean, hot water, Lister soaked his tired muscles and reflected on how his luck had held out once again, against all odds. His escape pod had been reeled in by a Gelf transport, and he remembered just enough tricks from Kryten’s tutoring to get himself taken unmolested to Argonne, where he’d just happened to duck down a side street to avoid a big fight blocking him and the intergalactic embassy, and just happened to have just enough currency to afford one beer, and he’d just happened to pop into the dive where he’d found Ace. He’d ditched the bronze flight suit for something more practical – khakis, solid brown boots, a black t-shirt and dark leather jacket – but the rug was immediately recognizable.

And now he was imagining what Rimmer would look like in the same outfit, if he’d just stand a little straighter, and instead of bleached bangs and fringe, sporting his usual auburn curls and whorls, a mess of vertical hair that was far more flattering than Lister would’ve ever admitted to him. Those flared nostrils … the few times he’d ever caught the hologram smiling or even just looking honestly uncertain, instead of snide or contemptuous … eyes wide and untouched by suspicion or calculation … bloody hell, he was giving himself a world-class boner just thinking about it, and he hadn’t even made it mentally down to the body yet …

It was some time before he could comfortably get out of the tub and dry off. Donning the robe, he padded out into the sitting area of the suite; Ace was at the wall-height window, hands on hips, peering out, but when Lister came through, he turned and nodded at one of the sofas. “They dropped off something for you to wear,” he said.

Lister picked up the thin plastic-covered hanger and checked under it, finding sensible pajamas in royal blue cotton. He saluted and grinned, taking himself off into the bedroom to quickly change, then coming back with the robe over that, rubbing his hands. “Thought I smelled something to eat?”

“I took the liberty of ordering vindaloo and couscous. It’s what m- The Dave I knew, liked to eat. Figure there can’t be that many differences, right, Skipper?”

“Well, I certainly wouldn’t kick it out of bed for being too hot!” Enthused, he took a seat on the sofa and lifted the lid from the steaming plate of food. Tears sprang to his eyes, entirely from the spices, and he inhaled, eyes rolling obscenely back into his head. “Little bit of heaven on a plate, Ace.” The pilot smiled and dropped onto the other sofa, crossing one leg over the other knee. “You eat already?”

“I’m not required to eat,” he pointed out. “Sometimes I do because I like to, and I can, but I’m not really hungry tonight.”

They chatted amiably for a few minutes before running out of small talk, and then Lister clicked through televised entertainment before finding a suitable sports game they could both watch the end of, involving something that looked like two rugby balls fused end-to-end and shoes with springs in them, on a field the size of a downtown car park. He stole a sideways glance at Ace every so often, noting the man kept a pleasantly neutral expression and his eyes on the screen most of the time, except for the few times he nodded toward Lister to ask how his meal was or to make some generic remark about the game. It wasn’t terribly exciting, and after a time, Lister yawned, stretched his arms, thanked Ace, and excused himself for bed. “Don’t stay up too late,” he said, amiably.

“No, I’ll be resting soon. Gotta recharge the old bee, after all.”

“Well, I’ll apologize ahead of time for my snoring. Rimmer used to tell me how bloody awful it was.”

“No matter. The door’s likely soundproof enough for that, anyway.” Lister cocked an eyebrow. “That sofa you were on is a right smart bed, folds right out,” he explained.

Lister chucked his thumb toward the bedroom. “You don’t have to do that, man; the bed’s the bloody size of Jupiter. There’s plenty room; hell, I’ve had to share far less space with the Cat when his favorite nap spot was flooded a few years back.”

An interesting expression broke up the neutrality of Ace’s features, but they reformed themselves readily. “I don’t really required that much rest, but thanks anyway, Davy-boy.” He shook a finger at Lister. “Now, get in there and turn in – I can tell you haven’t had so much as ten winks for a good while, and sleeping on the _Wildfire_ isn’t terribly comfortable. Better enjoy this while you can get it.”

Lister grinned and rolled his eyes. “G’night, then.”

******

Nearly an hour later, Lister had barely napped. He wasn’t used to such a nice bed; he was used to scratchier sheets, a smaller area to cover with his body, walls around him warmly hemming him in like a fetus in the womb. These sheets were clean and soft, like a cloud; the mattress was well-turned, the pillows a hard-ish foam that cradled his head.

He sat up. He needed to be more worn out than this to accept these conditions.

The enigma out in the sitting area didn’t help. Even if he accepted this wasn’t his Rimmer, it was still A Rimmer, and Lister felt somehow driven to have a conversation with the guy. Something more than knocking back a couple of drinks and watching the game after a curry; he could’ve done that with Peterson or Selby. His relationship with Rimmer had always been more complicated, if tetchy, and it didn’t feel right leaving it there. He wondered if Ace was still awake, and got up to pull on his robe and wander out quietly to see.

At first, he didn’t see anyone else when he wandered out of the bedroom, but then he approached the sofa with its back to the door, and saw he was there, seated on the middle cushion. Except that “slumped” was more like it – he was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. As Lister came around the side, he saw the toupee had been tossed on the table in front of him, and the man’s fingers were laced into more Rimmer-like dark hair. “Ace?” he asked, quietly, wondering what was wrong.

“Hmm?” The man lifted his head, obviously startled, and Lister wondered what was on his mind to distract him from any approaching footsteps, even in a closed suite like this. He pulled his hands from his hair, leaving slightly long, thick curls scattered, most dancing toward the ceiling, a few snaking around the shell of his visible ear from this angle. “Oh …” His voice sounded familiar, a little higher than Ace’s, and he cleared his throat, dropping it into a more heroic register as he schooled his expression. “Something wrong, Davy?”

Lister sat in the overstuffed chair nearest the sofa, finally realizing those hazel eyes weren’t so hazel in a circle of pink. He’d either been crying or rubbed them excessively. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“What?” Ace shook his head, blinking and sitting up straighter. “Nothing.” His eyes rested on the toupee, and Lister saw him stiffen; somehow, he knew the thought that was going through his mind was _How can I get that bloody thing back on my head without being obvious about it?_ … which made Lister wonder why it mattered. Ace reached up and began smoothing down his hair, mostly unsuccessfully, and Lister couldn’t help being touched by the gesture. Rimmer had tried so hard to tug down on parts of his or pat it into place, or work enough product into it to spank it into submission. There had never been enough, as far as Lister could ever tell. He reached for the screen control. “I’m sure there’s something on.”

“No – Ace, no, I don’t want to watch anything.” He shook his head. “Something’s obviously wrong; did I say something earlier? Did you get some news while I was in there?” The man shook his head, eyes fixed on the small wedge of metal he held in his hands, looking conflicted. Something occurred to Lister. “Look … ah, I don’t know how … There’s probably a good chance the Lister you knew treated you a lot like I treated the Rimmer I knew, which wasn’t very conducive to prolonged discussions about personal problems. If that’s the case, man, I apologize. Really. I can’t tell you how many times I wish I could tell my Rimmer how sorry I was for some of the stuff I said to him. I’m willing to bet your Lister might have the same regret.”

He kept his eyes down, but for the first time, a small, Rimmer-like smile touched that familiar face, and Lister felt a minor starburst through his chest. “I’m not sure about that,” he said softly. “He had a lot of good reasons to say some of those things, even though he was far from perfect himself.”

“Um … okay, that’s true,” Lister admitted, “I did, at least. But I could’ve said some of the things I said in a better way, and not tried to take the piss out of him so often. He was a smeghead, but – oh, I don’t know, he was our smeghead, and we miss him.”

Rimmer ( _I can’t think of him as Ace when he looks so much like Rimmer_ ) looked up. “All of you?” he asked, skeptically.

Lister thought it over honestly. “Yeah,” he finally admitted. “All of us. Even the Cat.” They both smiled at that, and Lister figured dynamics and personalities probably didn’t vary all that much among realities. “Now tell me what’s wrong, guy.”

He didn’t say anything for a while. “I was just missing all of you- them, I mean. Once in a while I run across another Lister, but not for a while, and none of them have reminded me as much of him as you do.”

“That bad, or good?”

Rimmer chuckled. “Some of both. You’ve both got this … insane, optimism, that I could never quite figure out. I used to make such fun of him for it, but – well, I guess he’s who I sort of look to to be like I am now. I _have_ to be optimistic, anything I’m doing. People depend on that; nobody wants to be rescued by some sad sack pathetic loser.”

“You’re not a loser, Rimmer.” It was the first time he’d used the name, but this Ace didn’t seem to react badly. “Again, I’m just going off ours – yeah, he whined and complained and carried on sometimes, but he also had a work ethic. A weird one, but one nonetheless. And a rather flexible system of honor, sure – but he got better, I swear, as time went on. He grew and he developed …” He trailed off realizing it was true. “And I never would’ve pushed him to become Ace if he hadn’t. If I hadn’t thought he had the capability inside him to DO it. I don’t throw a friend out to be killed on purpose, and if I’d known he wouldn’t survive and do well, I would’ve never let him leave.” He was surprised to feel the small part of a sob on those last several words, as he realized all over again his Rimmer was gone. Dead. Deactivated.

The other Rimmer was watching him curiously, now. “I know Lister wanted free of my nagging; I know I climbed on his last nerve and jumped up and down on it until he screamed,” he told Lister. “But I thought – I honestly thought, that it wasn’t that bad. I did it because he let me. He’s one of the few people I ever knew who did, who let me vent all my annoyances and anger and frustration all over him.” He swallowed, and got up to cross to the window, his back to the room and Lister. “If I’d known how badly he hated it …”

Lister felt incredibly guilty. What if that was all his Rimmer had been about? Feeling comfortable enough to drop his problems in Lister’s lap and looking for someone to listen? What if he’d thought he’d been pushed away because he was just too inconvenient and annoying and completely unwanted?

“I mean – I’m by myself all the time now. I’ve had time to sit and think about all the things I said, I did, to them. To Lister. Sometimes I think about going back and apologizing.” He stared out into the night; Lister turned in his seat and looked back at him. “I acted like they bothered me, but – I was part of a group. A team. I didn’t always help them like I could’ve, but I thought they accepted me.” He tilted his head forward; in the reflection, Lister saw his eyes were closed. “I don’t think I’d be welcome there.”

It was said softly. Lister moved slowly, until he was within reach to pull the man into his arms. Rimmer resisted, but eventually let Lister hold him. His arms awkwardly went around Lister’s waist; he didn’t stay there for long, but when he pulled back, he looked less crushed than he had.

“They wouldn’t turn you away,” Lister told him. “I can’t imagine they would. Not if they’re anything like us. It’s not like you killed their babies or something.” He paused, cocking his head. “You didn’t, did you?”

To his surprise, Rimmer laughed at that – not braying or sniggering, but a real laugh. “I thought about smashing that gimboid’s guitar a few times, or hiding Spare Head 1 – but no, not even that.”

“You should go see them.” He took a deep breath. “I wish Rimmer had come to see us at some point.” He remembered dreaming more than once that the hologram had returned, infused with Ace’s confidence and good nature, but retaining his own quirky personality. “I would’ve been happy to have him back, once I figured out what I’d lost.”

“Really?”

“Yes, _really_. I admit for a while, I enjoyed living like a slob and not getting ridden worse than Kryten’s tut-tutting, and being able to just sit somewhere and not worry about him coming along to interrupt my peace and quiet. But after a while? I missed him. It was like – I felt, honestly felt, his absence. Like there was something that shouldn’t have been missing, that was. I thought it’d subside a little when Kochanski came on board, but much as I like having her around? She doesn’t fit that Rimmer-sized cutout.”

“And you managed to misplace two of them, at that.”

Lister was heartened by the joke, but frowned a little. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m still kind of worried about nanobot Rimmer even though Holly said he wasn’t on board. But he was never the original. There were differences, noticeable to me.” He shrugged, trying not to think too hard about the fantasies he’d entertained about the one he thought of as _his_ Rimmer. “They were both originals – but the first one moreso.”

Rimmer studied him with a lopsided smile. “It’s too bad he didn’t get to hear that before …” He dropped that sentence faster than Gandalf with the ring of Mordor. “I’m sure he would’ve been quite grateful.”

They faced each other in the dim lighting of the room, coupled with the few city lights that shone in beneath the twinkling starshine. Rimmer didn’t move and, in fact, watched him intently. Lister had to admit he was curious. Mischievously, swallowing, he finally said, “How grateful you think he might’ve been?”

Later, Lister would describe the shift in expression on the man’s face as hungry, or perhaps even starving. Needing, and suffering for a lack. “Maybe your real question, Lister, is … _how_ would he have been grateful?”

It probably happened quite fast, but to Lister, a universe was born and died before he had Rimmer’s bottom lip between his, his hands shoving that leather jacket off his shoulders. He wrapped one arm around the man, stroking up and down the indent of his spine, while he buried his other fingers into the hair just above the nape of his neck. The hologram’s simulated body was warm under the thin cotton-like material, his simulated hair thick and a little tough, but still soft enough against the tips of Lister’s fingers.

The kiss, simulated or not, was _amazing_ – other than a few restless dreams, Lister had never actually gauged his Rimmer’s liplock ability, but this one knew when to tilt his head, inhale, breathe out, lick. Lister soon discovered he could throw off the man, though, by rubbing their noses together, rendering Rimmer effectively unable to breathe or do much more than make small noises and clutch at his arms. Gone was the intergalactic space hero and lover extraordinaire Ace Rimmer; here was the easily-rattled and all-too-nervous Arnie Rimmer, holding him like a drowning man clambering for a ladder.

Lister had never been more hot for someone in his life.

He knew this wasn’t his Rimmer, he told himself several minutes later as they shoved at each other’s clothes in the bedroom. But he was so like Lister’s old friend and nemesis, in so many small ways, and that was enough, apparently, after so long without him. He forced Rimmer back against the huge bed, giving him a little push and crawling over him as Rimmer propelled himself a few strokes back toward the center, never breaking eye contact. They swam in a sea of creamy foam sheets and deep blue comforter that Lister just now realized was damn near the same color Rimmer’s last uniform jacket had been. He stopped the man’s retreat from the edge with a hard, sudden kiss; it was not unwelcome, and he realized Rimmer had just been trying to get his feet on the bed rather than hanging over an edge – partly because he felt one of the legs attached to those feet curling around the backs of his knees.

Lister eventually rolled to his back and made quick work of shimmying out of the rest of his sleepwear, giving Rimmer the chance to hover and pin him, and dot small kisses from his nose to his chest. His hands slid up from Lister’s wrists to his hands, and he curled his fingers between Rimmer’s on both hands, squeezing and arching against him. He pulled them away only when he moved lower, tonguing Lister’s navel, and then he heard the man mutter lower into his abdomen, breathlessly, “My _God_ , that’s big.” It was Rimmer’s voice, but lower, with an edge of need he’d never heard, and Lister decided the memory of that sound would be the last thing he would roll around in his mind someday right before he died.

And then promptly replaced that with the vow to remember, instead, the feel of that tongue licking up the underside of his turgid cock, and lips and, very gently, teeth brushing down over the head and the shaft, warmly enveloping every important nerve ending on Lister’s body at that moment. He couldn’t make any sound; he was literally speechless, breathless, not even yet able to lift his head and look at the miracle taking place here in the Argonne Towers on the tenth floor.

Except that wasn’t the miracle; that was a few minutes later, with Rimmer under him, on his stomach, quietly accepting nips and kisses all over his back and shoulders as Lister fitted his fingers over the back of the other man’s, all four hands fisting in the sheets, as he slowly slid his cock over the curve of the man’s perfect arse, between his legs and trailing, sticky, over the backs of his thighs. He licked into Rimmer’s ear, feeling the body tremble even more. “I bet he wants to do this to you, too,” he whispered between gritted teeth. “If he doesn’t want to touch and shag you stupid, there’s somethin’ seriously wrong with him.”

What was wrong, though, was that he couldn’t properly kiss Rimmer over his shoulder; a few minutes later this was remedied when he allowed the man to shift and turn over, so that they faced each other, Lister propped on his elbows above a flushed, messy, swollen-lipped Rimmer. He was far more gorgeous than Lister remembered; he said so.

He blinked. “But the wig …” He looked toward the door, as if beyond into the sitting area.

“It’s always been what’s under it that spun my meter, Arn.” Lister tested the name as he kissed the other man, and was rewarded by being almost swallowed whole. “Besides, that thing looks like a flattened squirrel. You should never put it on your head again.” He flicked his eyes to Rimmer’s hair, licking his lips. “Not when you have all that already.”

“The flight suit?” Rimmer was rubbing his shoulders from behind, his arms around Lister.

He mugged, cheeky, for Rimmer. “Trust me, you look far better out of it.” The man levered himself up to brush his nose to Lister’s, rubbing, until Lister shut up and kissed him again, but good. “What … do you … want, right now?”

“That’s not so hard to guess, is it?”

“Bloody difficult, you are,” Lister growled. He tasted those lips and tongue again, struggling not to drown in the endorphins that tried to fool him that this was his Rimmer. “But it would’ve so, _so_ been worth the trouble …”

“You bastard,” Rimmer groaned into his mouth. “Just show me what you wanna do, already.”

There was clumsy shifting, rolling around, awkward knees and teeth colliding, more than a few swear words, jerky rhythms – and pain, Lister could tell, at least at first. He went as slowly as he could, sliding, pushing, soothing through words and endearments, hoping like hell he wouldn’t have to abandon this, but ready to if things didn’t improve anytime soon. But Rimmer was tough; he stuck with it, gritting his teeth, eyes closed, holding himself rather still even as Lister pumped away.

For a while.

And then another miracle happened to Dave Lister, when someone else’s Arn Rimmer began pushing back, begging for _harder, HARDER, do that again, circle your hips, to the side, Dave, oh yes, oh LISTY_ and letting his head fall back, dislodging dark, sweaty curls, and Lister leaned in and licked at his exposed neck and Rimmer raised his head and their lips met, and it was _the single most perfect feeling in any universe_ to be kissing deeply the person he was making love to.

“I … need-” his lover groaned.

“Yeah,” was all Lister could think to reply.

“Don’t stop.”

“Be … sort of impossible to …”

He’d been mostly quiet, so it was a surprise when Rimmer came with a loud, needy shout; Lister couldn’t make out the word, but it was vaguely familiar, the ending rhyming with the back part of “domino.” He was too busy dropping the mental guards he’d erected to hang on to _his_ erection long enough to get to this stage, and thrust savagely, noisily, finishing on some sort of series of sounds that might have been some variant of Rimmer’s first name. Or possibly the universe’s creator; his lust-addled brain didn’t recognize a difference.

They lay there panting, bodies stuck together, Lister resting his forehead on Rimmer’s temple. Between efforts to catch his breath, he heard Rimmer speak. “I wish you were mine.”

Without thinking, he replied, “You can’t imagine how I wish you were Rimmer.” He stifled a small sob and instead, gently untangled himself from the lanky body enough to drop to his side, facing the man. Rimmer turned and wrapped arms around him, and Lister kissed the bridge of his nose, and for a long while, they silently touched each other like this, eyes mostly open.

Finally, in the dark, the admissions started coming. “I was always attracted to him,” Rimmer said. “I spent years afraid to admit it, even after I died and nobody was left related to me to judge me. It’s why his slovenly habits drove me bonkers.”

“I’m really rather ashamed I’m not makin’ more of an effort to get Krissie into bed,” Lister sighed. “She’s not exactly like the one I remembered, but … I mean, she’s the last woman alive, I’m the last man, you’d think I’d be all over her.”

“I got so sick of hearing him talk about her. Kochanski this, and Krissie that, and ‘babe’ and ‘ange’ and ‘me reason for being.’ I wanted to be that important to someone. To him, as it turns out.”

“I used to wonder if I were going mad because I noticed what he wore, how it fit, how tight his trousers were.” Lister chuckled. “I can’t tell you how many times I passed him bending over and had to resist grabbing his arse, after he got that hard-light bee.”

Rimmer snorted. “Would’ve been nice to have that, even if I would’ve sniped at him for it. I’m not sure I could’ve handled getting what I wanted, just then.” His voice, when not tinged with a whine or an audible sneer, was a little twangy and soothing. “Although, I would’ve made an effort to visibly _relish_ it if it’d happened in front of Ace. Lister was positively transfixed by that git, thought he hung the damn moon or at least made the rope to do it.”

“The first one?”

“No, hell no – any and all, it seemed like. I remember being stuck acting like Ace after a polymorph attack. I thought he was going to eat me alive … and then I thought he wanted to bundle me out an airlock. You have no idea what it’s like to be watched like you’re a disappointment, like you’re just not what the person had in mind, if you show just one flash of having something in common with it.” Rimmer sighed. “My father looked at me like that all the time.”

It seemed they shared some common events, too, their two dimensions. Lister struggled to remember how he’d treated Rimmer after the emohawk had sucked out his negativity. He _had_ been confident and gorgeous, and Lister couldn’t deny he’d appreciated it. But as he recalled, he never got the chance to talk to Rimmer about that after it wore off and he was Rimmer again, since the man had immediately put him off, insulting his intelligence and behavior, and pushing, pushing away until Lister had ended up doing his usual scowl instead and clamming up. “Maybe he wasn’t as disapproving as you thought,” he finally said.

“I don’t know.” Rimmer sighed and reached behind him to fumble with the covers, pulling some up and over them, sliding his arm back over Lister under the material. They were still sideways on the bed, still too contented to move from the wet spot, and Lister knew he would ache tomorrow. But he didn’t care.

“I will say when Rimmer was Ace, he was too damn bossy for my tastes; one of the things I liked was Rimmer might make fun of my suggestions, but he’d listen to them. He didn’t treat me like I was six years old and needed a keeper to lock me away and keep me fresh or something.”

Rimmer was quiet for a moment. “At the time I thought he was just stupid or thick, but Lister – I think he expected things of me before we ever met Ace at all. He kept acting like I’d go along with scouting and rescues, and actually be useful, instead of a coward. He trusted me to keep an eye on his back a lot of times he really shouldn’t have. Nobody else ever did that … and I fucked it up.” He hesitated. “It was the best thing he ever did for me, trying to kick my arse, and at the time all I could think was how sick I was of him trying to shame me into action.”

The two men continued on for a while, baring their souls and thoughts to one another, relieved their secrets didn’t have to be judged by the two worst critics in the multiverse. It was painfully clear to Lister that this Rimmer was still helplessly in love with his dimension’s Lister – and he had to admit he was beginning to wonder about the severity of his own feelings, as well.

Years too late.

******

He woke up alone in the morning, sunlight filtering in past half-turned vertical blinds. Lister wondered if he’d simply had a particularly erotic dream he’d confused with reality – saints knew it wouldn’t have been his first one. But as he sat there yawning and scratching under his arm, the bedroom door opened and in came Ace, who grinned at him and asked, “Still sore, ‘Skipper?’” There was an ironic edge to the nickname, like it was an in-joke, and those greenish eyes raked his exposed skin appreciatively.

“I’d think that’d be more your problem, there, ‘Ace.’”

This Rimmer laughed and tossed him a robe. “You’ve got some breakfast out here, and they brought your clothes back up. I think they managed to get all the stains out of the shirt; rather remarkable, really. Some poor maid must’ve slaved over that thing all night.”

Lister reached behind for a pillow and threw it at him. “Smeghead,” he muttered, pulling the robe over his shoulders and sliding across out of bed. He took his time pulling the robe closed and belting it, watching the way Rimmer watched _him_ the entire time. He realized the guy looked the way Lister had imagined during his bath last night, in the khakis and tight dark shirt, and hair not covered up, and as he passed him on his way out, he couldn’t help stopping and stretching up to give him a long kiss, brushing some short curls behind one ear. “Smeggin’ Greek god,” he murmured; Rimmer’s skin actually flushed pink.

They discussed minor things as they ate – both of them – with Lister amazed at how easy small talk seemed to be now, even with a couple of minor disagreements. An hour of looking at him finally got to Lister, and he finished up by shoving Rimmer back into a sofa arm and going down on him, licking and sucking and blowing until the man begged for relief, gripping Lister’s shoulder with one hand and the back of the sofa with his other. Lister angled his head to watch as Rimmer came, teeth clamped together, then mouth open, with a desperate cry and thrusting of hips. This, he finally decided, was the image he’d haul out to examine as he died – the man who was half-Ace, half-Arnie, all Rimmer, at once put together and half torn apart, finally coaxed into giving in to a decade of repressed desire thanks to yours truly.

He left that other Lister’s Rimmer there, panting, eyes closed, trousers still open, dropping a kiss on his forehead as he walked by back to the bathroom, feeling smug and powerful. He finished himself off in the shower, humming after, and didn’t take long to dress once he was dry.

When he walked back out into the sitting area, he was Ace again, with the jacket and more graceful movements … but, Lister was pleased to note, without the rug. A smile played around Rimmer’s mouth and he shrugged one shoulder. “Thought I’d take a Lister’s suggestion for once.”

“Worse things could happen.” They faced one another; there was a new softness in Rimmer’s eyes, an erosion of cynicism and suspicion toward Lister, and for the first time, with weighted heart, he realized they would be parting ways before long. They had to get to the hangar from here, and Lister knew he would have to be Ace again in that time, and when he sat at his ship’s controls again. “You’ll go back and see him, right?”

“I’m … thinking about it.” And then this Rimmer kissed him one more time, holding his face tightly, and whispered a “thank you” against his lips.

And then they had to check out.

The walk to Ace’s ship wasn’t as long or awkward as Lister might’ve imagined back in the room. Again, he was surprised by their ability to find things to talk about, this time mostly the _Wildfire_ herself and design features. Ace explained modifications a couple of Spanners Lister had made to stabilize the jump-drive’s ability to pinpoint a specific dimension so they weren’t just tossed all the time into whatever random universe Fate dictated via eeny-meeny-miney-mo. “You really should’ve looked into becoming an engineer,” the taller man said at one point, shaking his head. “I mean, the Listers I’ve met who did – they’re absolutely brilliant. They _invent_ things, not just fix them.”

After talking pleasantly with the hangar manager and directing payment of his bill, Ace steered Lister to the familiar ship, painted a brighter red than the last time he’d seen it. The hatch was already open, and Ace preceded him, gesturing around the cramped sleeping area for Lister to make himself at home, while the pilot ducked into a narrow corridor toward the tiny cockpit. A couple of minutes later, he heard a “Hold still, she’s got to scan you” from the front, felt a slight charge of electricity as he assumed it was being done, and then an “All right, you’re clear. Have your dimension ident in a minute.”

Lister looked around, noting some locked panel doors above the two narrow bunks; he wondered what was secreted within them. Finding a tiny recessed counter under which it looked like a sink might be hidden, he glanced into the mirror above it, checking to make sure he’d washed all the sand from his eyes.

Ace’s voice came to him again, this time with a strangled tightness. “Can you hold still? Got to do it again.” He waited it out, then went back to being nosy.

A narrow strip of paper, worn but neatly laminated, was stuck to the top of the mirror; after testing to be sure it would go back up on its sticky-tack, Lister pulled it off and read the string of letters and numbers, wondering what it was. There were a few small photos stuck to the edges of the mirror as well, including a couple of what looked like children, and he called, “Hey, too personal to ask who these pictures are of?” No answer. “Rimmer? Ace?”

He followed the silence to the front, able to fit but not do much beyond walk. Coming up behind the pilot’s seat, he realized the easiest thing to do was to kneel if he wanted to talk to Rimmer. “I was asking-” He caught the man’s face in profile; he was pale, expression indefinable, staring at a readout before him. Lister glanced at it, two strings of numbers and letters next to his name. “That my code?” he wondered. Rimmer nodded quietly, looking away, lips pressed tightly. Lister read it:

_Initial Scan: WE28932FSESD235  
Additional Scan: WE28932FSESD235_

Other than looking like a VIN number, it was immediately familiar and he wasn’t sure why. Realizing he still held the laminated strip between his fingers, Lister raised it … and studied back and forth several times between the screen and the paper:

_WE28932FSESD235_

He didn’t know how long it took to make the connection, but he put it down to still being a little groggy that it hadn’t bowled into him right away. Rimmer refused to look at him, eyes pointed out the front glass, swallowing every so often. He watched the man’s fingers fidget against the console, curling under and releasing, then curling again.

Finally, Lister reached around to press the still-sticky strip of paper to the console right above Ace’s finely-trembling hand, leaning in to brush the tip of his nose against the shell of an ear, a torrent of heat and vast relief flooding his system at just the tiny, tiny touch. “I think this is ours,” he whispered, with a soft growl.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Dead Man's Bluff](https://archiveofourown.org/works/211480) by [VeronicaRich](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VeronicaRich/pseuds/VeronicaRich)




End file.
